


The Sound of Aching Hours

by Hyela



Series: A Multitude of Sounds [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Dark, Banshees, Demons, Devils, Erinyes, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, M/M, Mermaids, Monsters, Mothman, Multi, Sirens, Supernatural Elements, Trolls, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:57:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Hyela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of ficlets, drabbles and short stories set in AUs with supernatural elements. In other words, trying to imagine Les Amis as Monsters, or otherworldly beings.<br/>The mood may vary from disturbing to cute, the genre may vary from horror to romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Craft (Feuilly) (Witch)

**Author's Note:**

> -English is not my first language and I don't have a Beta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly has a special talent, and expressing it through tattoos is a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Feuilly/Enjolras and a bit of Feuilly/Grantaire, and hints of Feuilly/others.

_It is the function of art to renew our perception._  
 _What we are familiar with we cease to see._  
 _The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic,_  
 _We see a new meaning in it._  
~Anais Nin

 

  
He wasn’t paid for it, nor did he wanted to be. From his perspective, it was his clients that were doing him a favour by lying on the long table that took most of his living room. As they installed themselves and removed their clothes, Feuilly felt his fingers tingle and his heartbeat accelerate in a rush of excitement. He eyed their skin, took in every wrinkle, every mole and every little imperfection; he noticed the colour, the way each hair curl, the little stains of ink. He was almost salivating by the time he approached them, hands raised in the air and blackening.

A witch. That’s what they called him. He couldn’t do much, like casting spells or curses, but he could make art drip from his fingers. He could think about an image and make that image appear on what he touched, whatever it might be, in the colour that he wanted it to be. Feuilly loved to walk around in the streets and let his fingers run on the surface of various buildings, leaving a trail of pretty little graffiti behind him. He liked to tap on the walls of his room, changing his decorum as he felt like it. First and foremost, he loved painting human skin.

There was something extremely appealing in leaving a mark on something that was breathing and living. Feuilly did not exactly know why; he suspected that it was because he loved to see his art move. However, that might also have been because his drawings seemed to have an influence on the people who bore them. Since they were coming from himself, from the depths of his mind, it was like Feuilly was sharing parts of his being with his clients. It felt like he was a little more understood each time he did it. That was such a relief.

Feuilly’s clientele was small and select. He did not trust that a lot of people would keep his secret, and he did not want to become a circus freak, or for someone to try to abuse of his strange ability. He could very well defend himself, but he preferred not to. His art was meant to express what remained buried under skin, trapped inside insecure ideas that one would have trouble making sense of. He detested using it to blind people, for instance. To hurt. It happened once before and Feuilly had been inconsolable for over two months. That is when he revealed his secret for the first time to one of his friends.

Despite being the leader of their little group of friends, Enjolras was close to very few of them. He tried to keep up with everyone’s business and hobbies, but he could be a little too focus on work to enjoy a lot of spare time. On this regard, he resembled Feuilly, who worked five days a week and did volunteer work whenever he could. That must have been part of why they got along so well. So, instead of going to his best friend Bahorel, Feuilly went to Enjolras, teary eyed, and blurted out that he had been a bad person and that he was tired of keeping everything in just in case someone would notice him and start threatening him.

Enjolras’ reaction upon seeing what Feuilly could do was an ecstatic sigh. He practically had stars in his eyes. He immediately promised Feuilly that he would tell no one, that he would protect his identity, and that Feuilly had no ground being ashamed of what he was. Enjolras assured him that it was magnificent, a gift of nature, and that he could do great things with it. That prompted Feuilly to ask if Enjolras would like a tattoo. The blonde man’s smile faltered a little, and he said no, but that he knew that some of their friends wouldn’t mind.

Frankly, Feuilly had been fretful and reluctant to talk to their group about his special talent. Some of them were blabber mouths, and others had loved ones with whom they shared absolutely everything: keeping secrets was not their fort. They were rather anal about being honest and upfront about the things that mattered. Still, he decided that it couldn’t hurt to tell Grantaire, who talked an awful lot, but was rarely listened to. He was the first that Enjolras proposed, for some reason. Grantaire already had his fair share of tattoos, but surely he’d want more. Surely, he’d accept Feuilly as he was.

He did. In fact, Grantaire’s first gesture was to promptly ask for a demonstration. He was shaking, standing next to Enjolras, his eyes wide open and his mouth crooked into a disbelieving smirk. Yet, he looked absolutely envious and excited, even while pretending that he needed a solid proof of what Feuilly could do. Enthralled by the stocky man’s behaviour, Feuilly made him remove his sweatshirt and put his hand over Grantaire’s heart. The image of a red, pulsing heart slowly formed on Grantaire’s chest, and Feuilly felt warm and gleeful; the relief was so strong that he thought it was almost sexual in nature. When he was done and he saw the heart almost beating on Grantaire’s skin, he seized his friend’s chubby face, stared into his bemused, incredulous eyes, and kissed him on the mouth.

Grantaire gasped into his mouth and Feuilly heard Enjolras hiccuped in surprise. Then, something happened and Grantaire clung to him forcefully, kissing him back with a fervour that Feuilly did not know he was capable of. He felt warm, and he tasted of chocolate and cigarettes, which made sense since Grantaire was a smoker and a sweet-tooth. Feuilly put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and little lines of smoke appeared on his skin. Grantaire shuddered and pulled away. He was red in the face and looked confused. Feuilly turned his head to look at Enjolras. The latter hadn’t moved. He just stood there, arms crossed, his cheeks red and his eyes to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Feuilly said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Enjolras cleared his throat and Grantaire shakily put his sweatshirt back on.

“It’s nothing,” Grantaire murmured. “I... you are fantastic. That’s... the heart is beautiful.”

He did not know what to say, and neither did Feuilly, but when they parted, they felt a little closer to each other.

 

A couple of weeks after that day, Enjolras came back to Feuilly. He was alone this time. He wanted a tattoo.

“Are you sure?” Feuilly asked, surprised. “You didn’t want it the first time I proposed. Or was Grantaire your guinea pig?”

Enjolras flushed and shook his head. “I want a quote. I want you to put ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’ on my upper back. I know it’s corny, but—”

“It’s not corny,” Feuilly assured with a tender tone. “You can take off your shirt. Wait. Come and sit on that table.”

Enjolras let Feuilly push the words into his skin. It didn’t seem to hurt him, but he shivered nonetheless. Feuilly chose a curvy writing that somehow looked self-assured. He stared as the dark letters formed and assembled on Enjolras’ back, a sensation of pure pleasure washing over him. When he was done, Enjolras sighed and threw his head back. He was trembling.

“You’re a witch,” he let out, giggling with delight. “You are bewitching.”

Feuilly smiled and, much like with Grantaire, he felt the urge to just shower Enjolras with love. He managed to refrain himself this time, but he still kissed Enjolras’ forehead. The blonde smiled and laughed again. He raised his arms and slid his hands in Feuilly’s messy hair. Enjolras had the long hands of a pianist, hands that Feuilly would have wanted for himself. He took Enjolras’ hands and put them down.

“Bring me other clients,” Feuilly murmured.

After that occurrence, Feuilly told his secret to the rest of his friends. He was still nervous, but he was now willing to take the risk, because the sensation of sharing his talent, of imprinting people he loved, was similar to euphoria. After a while, he simply became addicted to it. He couldn’t do for a week without tattooing someone. Since he couldn’t just cover his friends in images, he had to limit himself to small, sometimes barely perceptible pictures. Still, that was enough for Feuilly. It made him happy.

“It’s not simple art,” Enjolras told him one day. He was sitting naked on the table. He looked like a Greek statue. “It’s like... we really feel what you engraved in our skin, you follow me? I saw the green clover you drew on Bossuet’s wrist. It was so... realistic. But at the same time, it wasn’t like any clover I’ve ever seen. It came right from your imagination. It was beautiful.”

“Oh, that’s one of the small ones,” Feuilly said modestly.

“Yes? You would poke a dot on someone’s nose and you would find a way to make it unique. Don’t you get what I’m saying? You are special. In a great way. You... you renew little parts of us with the tip of your fingers. Bossuet had never been more lucky than after you painted that clover on him. Not that I think you put a spell on him, but... you made him more confident. That was a fantastic thing to do.”

Feuilly trembled under the weight of the compliment. He smiled to his friend, but felt like he had to change the subject. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to illustrate the rest of my back,” Enjolras declared, “I want you to think about something and print it onto me, whatever it might be. I want my skin to be a portrait of your soul.”

There was a silence during which Feuilly simply gaped at his friend. It sounded almost like a declaration of love. Whether it was platonic or romantic, Feuilly couldn’t tell, but Enjolras seemed to get shy. The blonde cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

“I mean, if that doesn’t sound too personal to you.”

Feuilly went around Enjolras and put his palms flat on Enjolras’ bach, right under the French moto. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts flow. He concentrated on the impressions that Enjolras was giving him: wild flowers resisting the strength of the wind, a crooked ace of hearts, a flock of migratory birds preparing for the fall, the tail and the scales of a poisonous snake, a raised flag... Feuilly also thought about words: passion, vehemence, righteousness, fervour, goodness. They rained from his hands and curled to the drawings. Enjolras gasped and moaned. He had never seemed more attractive. Feuilly grabbed Enjolras’ shoulders and pulled him against his chest.

“May I kiss your back,” he panted. He felt himself sweating. There was so much of him that passed from his fingers to Enjolras’ body. It was much more than he had gave any of his friends. He was exhilarated.

“Yes,” Enjolras breathed out.

Feuilly peppered Enjolras’ skin with wet little kisses. He could almost feel the tattoos pulse under his lips. His heart was beating hard. If he wasn’t careful, he would want to take Enjolras right on this table. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to with most of his clients, but his blonde leader was special to him. He did not want to use him, or to scare him away. He kissed Enjolras’ neck and pulled away.

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom,” he said. He gently massaged Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras turned his head and stared at Feuilly.

“Your eyes are glowing,” he said. Feuilly’s hand went to his face, but Enjolras kept talking. “You gave me an erection.”

Feuilly bursted into laugh. He was pleased, but a little uncomfortable.

“Enjolras, I’m flattered, but it’s just a physical reaction, and I’m not sure if—”

“I don’t want sex,” Enjolras explained. “I just needed you to touch me in... that way. Thank you. It felt amazing.”

“Yeah? Well, doing this to you felt amazing too. I’m the one who should be thanking you. Ever since you convinced me to use my ability on some people, ever since you let me do this to you, I’ve been feeling... freer. Healthier. More like myself. You said that I renewed parts of you, well you liberated my entire being, Enjolras.”

Enjolras’ smile was the most rewarding sight Feuilly could have had. He wanted to print it on his own skin.


	2. Sympathy for the Devil (Grantaire) (The Devil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is the Devil. Sometimes, he regrets that fact when he hears Enjolras talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning  
> -Contains Grantaire's biased opinion about stuff.  
> -Pessimistic view of life after death
> 
> -Contains E/R

 

 _Pleased to meet you_  
 _Hope you guess my name_  
 _But what's puzzling you_  
 _Is the nature of my game_  
~Sympathy for the Devil -The Rolling Stones

  
He did not remember why he had chosen the name of Grantaire, but when it slipped through Enjolras’ lips, he felt as though it was the best goddamn decision he had ever taken. This sentiment was immediately followed by a rushing shame that burned his cheeks and the tip of his ears. He couldn’t believe that, after so many years, so many centuries, he had to fall prey to such sappiness. He was supposed to be a wretched soul, the most wicked of them all, with a missing heart and dark, disturbing eyes. Yet, here he was, soaked in the kind of mawkishness that repulsed him in others. He did not understand how that could be.

Enjolras was a fool. A petty, grotesquely humane fool. He had the pretense of knowing people’s pain, fancied himself a revolutionary and neglected his own person for what he thought was the good of society. Grantaire had seen such idiots before. The idealists, the rebels, the incorruptible, the ones who strived for a better, grander world. The planet was filled with them, and what humans called Hell had its fair share of them too. There was nothing special about the blonde leader and his ridiculous group of would-be activists. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. It was all pre-chewed dreams and fanaticism. An Ouroboros of pain and disappointment.

Then, why was Enjolras so appealing? What was it about him that made Grantaire stay, when he could be attending to his libertine activities in peace without the self-righteous stare of the blonde following him everywhere? All Grantaire knew was that, deep in himself, there was a churning yearning he had rarely felt before, and never for a mere human. He couldn’t get rid of it, and God did he try. He try to tear his eyes apart from the gracious, willowy form of the blonde. When that did not work, he tried to tear apart every argument that Enjolras could bring to the table. He acted drunk and used all of his cynicism full force, so the man would hate him, and so Grantaire could hate him back. Nothing worked.

Sometimes, for a fraction of a second, Grantaire thought that Enjolras was not even a man. There was no God worth mentioning, but a few of the creatures created by them were interesting enough. Beings of light, filled with goodness and the urge to protect. Naive little things that compensated for their bad understanding of the world with their terrible fierceness and their appalling tenderness. It would have made more sense, but no: Enjolras was nothing, but a man. A feminine man with long limbs, long fingers, long blonde hair and furious blue eyes. A fragile man, albeit a vehement one. A futile animal, albeit a beautiful one. Therefore, he was a dime a dozen, and Grantaire suffered to be so enamoured with something that could be broken and replaced so easily.

Enjolras made him weak. Not only in the knees, but in the mind. Since he had met him, he had not tried to bring anyone to their downfall. It was not something that he did often anyway, because one would get bored of it after a few days, let alone a few millennia, but with Enjolras, he felt like he shouldn’t try anything. The first time that thought had crossed his mind, he had become enraged. He barked at everyone who dared talking to him and spat in the face of a girl who bumped into him on the street. She screeched at him and started to cry, and Grantaire felt genuinely sorry, not because the girl meant anything, but because that wasn’t something Enjolras would have done. He apologized and gave her a handkerchief, which she snatched before running away. Enjolras had made him kinder.

People tended to exaggerate the deviousness of the Devil. Grantaire was not even as cruel as some of the known psychopaths and tyrants of this world. He did not care about the fall of humanity or any of the victories the Gods might claim. Mostly, he was lazy, vexed and depressed with the way things worked. He was spited by the fact that a simple murmur, a little touch could corrupt an innocent. He was aggravated by the complexity of life and its uselessness. He did not understand acts of creation when anything had the potential to be eventually reduced to dust. He scoffed at the human’s traditions, their stinginess, their pettiness. His most unique flaw was his capacity to be unimpressed with everything, to put the others’ dreams to shame. Since he had a foreboding sense of all things getting rotten, people had decided, a long time ago, that he was a living bad omen. The more he lived, the more his list of sins seemed to amplify. It was laughable at best, but Grantaire guessed that he was a good scapegoat, and that the world probably needed one to wash its hands of all its ignoble doings.

Enjolras did not need a scapegoat. He did not seem to even believe in the Devil. He thought that humans were plague by ignorance —which was true— but that man was fundamentally good —which was dumb and very Enjolras-esque. His blonde leader actually made the effort to listen to Grantaire’s rambling to spot the good in it. He tried to talk to Grantaire about art after he heard that the Devil daubed a little, although Enjolras knew next to nothing about the topic. He showed equal part interest and exasperation towards Grantaire, but he was definitely seeing worth somewhere in the monster, where no one else could see it.

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Grantaire had grown all emotional and affectionate because that one being tried to dig up some good out of him without forgiving him his flaws. Other humans would have long since gave up, and if some remained attracted to Grantaire, it was only because he knew how to be mildly amusing. As Hobbes would say, humour was something humans used to feel superior to another person or to their past self. There wasn’t really anything noble in it: it just was. Enjolras, though, did not find Grantaire amusing in the least. He was appalled at all the cynicism, but most of all, he was worried. Few people ever worried about Grantaire anymore.

And so Grantaire had become addicted to the sound of Enjolras’ voice. He was obsessed with the man’s enthusiasm, his righteous fury and all of the things he was ready to do to get his utopia going. Grantaire looked with tenderness upon the blonde’s face. He now had needs of his soulful eyes and his gaze got lost on his cherry lips. He couldn’t go a day without thinking about all of the discourse Enjolras made. It did not give him hope, but it made him wonder about what it would be like were the world any different. It made him weep at night, and wish he could sleep. He did not need any of that drivel. Love was supposed to be a foreign, inane emotion, something he had left behind when he was scorned and rejected by his divine parents. There he was, loving like a stupid kid.

“I only know love and freedom,” he once told the group of revolutionaries. In that moment, he thought he was lying about the first part. However, the more time he spent in presence of Enjolras, the truer it became, and the more freedom seemed to fade away. What freedom was there to be in love? Grantaire certainly hadn’t chosen to love. Had he had any choice in the matter, he’d have picked someone that was going to last at least a few more decades.

“I love you,” he ended up blurting out to Enjolras. He had followed the blonde home in the shadows of Paris like he had taken a liking to do, and had intercepted him before his apartment. Nobody saw them, because Grantaire did not want them to be seen. “Let me in,” he asked politely. He might have demanded it, might have entered by force, but he did not feel like it. He felt tired and wary from a heart beating too fast, and surprisingly shy too. Enjolras blinked at him, sort of gape, and then closed his mouth and motioned Grantaire to follow him. His cheeks were a little red.

Grantaire had no intention of ravishing Enjolras. He did not feel worthy of that act, and it would be an awful experience because he had forgotten how to be gentle, how to not just take what he wanted. He figured that Enjolras was untouched and did not need to be taken in a savage way. Of course, Grantaire could have tried to show gentleness —after all, Enjolras made him kind and meek— but he preferred not to take any risk. All he wanted, during that night, was to be honest. He knew that he only had a few days before something irreversible happened.

Enjolras’s apartment was small, but coquettish. He probably had not been the one who decorated it. There was a thick layer of dust everywhere. Enjolras was so neglectful of things that wasn’t related to work, or his friends. The blonde turned towards Grantaire and licked his lips. He looked upon Grantaire’s features attentively, and waited for a further confession or something else altogether. Grantaire could feel the spark of curiosity emanating from Enjolras. There was no trace of desire. No trace of fear either. Enjolras was simply intrigued. Amused, Grantaire made the suspense last by not saying anything. Enjolras frowned only after a minute.

“Well?” he said, “Don’t you have something else to tell me?”

Grantaire wanted to warn Enjolras against a failed revolution and his imminent death. He wanted to tell him about the long, cold corridor that was Hell, or the Hades, where souls went to wait. He wanted to talk about an unfair paradise, and the futility of living only to be unjustly treated after. He wanted to tell Enjolras to make the most of his miserable human life when it was still time, instead of wasting it on naive ideals completely disconnected from reality.

He did not. He couldn’t. He was imagining Enjolras dying, spilling his blood for a cause he deemed right. He imagined Enjolras waking up dead and getting offended by what he was seeing. He saw Enjolras remaining his passionate self, even without his body, and pushing the inanimate souls of Hell to do something. Anything. So that the lives of the living were worth it in the end. Another revolution, one that Grantaire knew he would follow even if it whipped him out of existence in the end.

He grinned at Enjolras.

“I have nothing more to tell you, except that you are a dead fool, but one that I can’t do without. I came to apologize for my rude behaviour earlier, and incidentally, for following you like a creep. You, Enjolras, are made of the utmost magnificence, and if I believed in anything, it would be in you.”

Enjolras stared at him. “Who are you trying to be, R? An advocate for everything that is wrong with the world presently, or a good man strutting towards redemption?”

“I’m the Devil,” Grantaire said truthfully. Enjolras scoffed predictably. “It is true; I am the serpent, the fallen one, the beast. Mostly, I’m just a lost soul, like everyone else, and I wish I could help you.”

“Then, why won’t you?” Enjolras exclaimed.

“Ah, because easiness is not goodness, and nothing good would result from me interfering.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m an unlucky charm, Enjolras. I tried to help, before. Both the most dishonourable men and the good ones. Nothing ever come out of it. I can be strong; I can’t beat human nature. Not without cheating, anyway...”

“You are talking nonsense, but Grantaire, you are not alone! We are all brothers here, and—”

“Hush, I do not wish to be your brother,” Grantaire retorted.

Enjolras held his head high, his cheeks a deep shade of red. “What you want from me—”

“Nothing. Nothing. Do not give me anything, darling, do not feed the mediocre worm at your feet. There is nothing I could demand of you, except to be sure of your conviction and to keep infuriating me like you know how to do so well.”

“I’ll give you my hand,” Enjolras said, “When I’ll have the feeling that you are not mocking me.”

“I’ll take your hand one day, and it’ll be a glorious day. I’ll press it and be the happiest Devil on Earth. We’ll be united before the end.”

Enjolras stepped forward and embraced Grantaire who stiffened. He pressed his lips against Grantaire’s cheek and murmured in his ear: “You better keep that promise.”

Ah, there it was. The slight wave of desire. It wasn’t sexual at all, but Grantaire could feel it. Enjolras had, evidently, misinterpreted his words. Nevertheless, Grantaire felt happy.

“Let me tuck you in, if only for tonight,” he asked politely.

“I am not ready to be tucked in by your hands. Try in a few days,” Enjolras offered, a slight teasing smile on his lips.

A few days later, Enjolras was dying, his hand pressed in Grantaire’s. Grantaire watched as he drew his last breath and shuddered as he felt the soul leave the handsome body. When Enjolras’ soul touched his, there was a spark of something that felt like the infinite. Grantaire was afraid for a moment, but he forgot his fear when Enjolras let himself be cradled in his arms, ready to be taken in a place that much needed his help.

In that moment, Grantaire did not feel meek or weak. He felt powerful.


	3. Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (Éponine) (Vampire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine cannot let Marius go without one kiss. A biting one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning  
> -Non-con of a sort regarding that kiss.  
> -Éponine being creepy.
> 
> -Contains unrequited Éponine/Marius and mention of Marius/Cosette

_We only said good-bye with words_  
 _I died a hundred times_  
 _You go back to her_  
 _And I go back to black_  
~Back to Black -Amy Whinehouse

 

  
It was no secret that love was a complicated matter, especially when you were a vampire. Love someone and you want them by your side, but you couldn’t coerce them to follow you. That was cheating; the sentiment tasted like ashes since it lacked sincerity, tenderness and passion. Simple obedience was not enough when you loved someone: you wanted them to willingly love you too. If that wasn’t the case... well, there you were, stuck with the curse of longing, of having the power to seize what you wanted, and for it all to be completely useless.

Marius did not love Éponine. Not in the way she wanted him to, anyway. She even suspected that he barely considered her a friend. The man had a poor comprehension of human relationships, and so he probable thought that Éponine was only an acquaintance, that she couldn’t be caring that much about him. Had he seen, perhaps things would have been different, but he remained oblivious until the day he fell for another woman, breaking Éponine’s heart with the confession. She smiled and pretended to be overjoyed for him, but she felt the despair loom over her like the waves of a cruel ocean.

If she was to be honest, Éponine had never needed a man in her life to function, and she had lived for a very long time. She preferred to feed on them until their last breath rather than to grant them the benefice of the doubt and to befriend them. She had spent her life dragging around the bodies of salacious assholes who dared to follow her into the night with the intention to scare her or worse. She had built walls around her, a fortress of solitude where she thought she was living a decent life. She had known poverty, she had known famine and humiliation, she was familiar with the cold and the depressing feeling of having nothing else to lose. When all of that went away, she was sure she was never going to miss anybody by wandering into life alone. She was wrong, obviously.

The thing about Marius was that he was a genuinely good man. He was kind, generous even, and though he tended to be Manichean in thoughts, he was always willing to help the needy. Marius himself was not a very fortunate man: from what Éponine had understood, he’d been mistreated by his grandfather and both of his parents had died. He was awkward, he was shy and unsure, and he acted like a child who was afraid of getting reprimanded most of the time. Offer him a compliment, and he would reddened with embarrassment, his first thought being that you were mocking him. Marius was a sweet, innocent person, and Éponine was glad that she got the chance to meet him.

Unfortunately, they could not be. Marius loved a woman named Cosette, a name that sounded dreadfully familiar to Éponine. She remembered biting into the pale neck of a prostitute who begged and begged that she had to take care of her child, a child named Cosette. Éponine had not listened at that time, so maybe this was Karma that the only man she loved had to fall for the orphaned child she left behind.

Éponine had seen Cosette: she was a pretty lark, but nothing extraordinary. She had long dark hair, a mousy face and soulful brown eyes. She stuck her tongue out when she was thinking and her laugh sounded like a melody. Éponine had gone to her house with the intend of perhaps drinking from her, or breaking her neck to give herself one more chance with Marius. She could not bring herself to do it. Cosette seemed so happy, dancing around her smiling adoptive father while chanting Marius’ name. It was not her fault that Éponine had no one in her life. It was not her fault that Marius loved her instead of a creature of the night, of whom he still ignored the secret. She was not to blame, and Éponine felt that her life had probably been miserable enough without dying due to petty jealousy.

She turned back and decided to go see Marius instead. She was not going to interfere with the love of her love, but she was still going to test it. To see if it was as strong as they claimed it was as they got lost in thoughts just thinking about each other. Éponine did not have to do this: it was not her business if Marius and Cosette’s love was a lasting one or not. However, she was heartbroken. Heartbreak was such a terrible thing to feel, especially when one had so much power they did not know what to do with it. It was making her feel human again, which was the worst because it reminded her of her past life, a life spent in the street, unloved and afraid.

Before seeing Marius at his apartment, Éponine stopped by the pub where the man who changed her hung out with his new set of friends. Montparnasse was a vampire from the early nineteenth century, and he never lost the manners or the looks of that time. He sported a tail-coat and a top hat and walked proudly with a cane, like he was some sort of duke or king. He was nothing if not a petty thief and a murderer who had acquired his share of money due to the fact that he was immortal. Still, he’d been a loyal friend ever since he turned Éponine into a blood-sucking being.

“I’m going to turn Marius,” Éponine declared as she stood before him. He eyed her with a look of total indifference, sipping the liquid that past for alcohol from his silver flask. Éponine almost bared his teeth at him. “Aren’t you going to stop me?”

“Are you here because you want me to take over the responsibility of turning an idiot into a beast?” Montparnasse drawled. “I’m not going to stop you. It’s up to you to make all the mistakes that you want to make, ma chérie.”

Éponine growled. She had wanted him to react much more than this, but Montparnasse liked her as an independent woman. He never tried to take away her decisions from her, and he often let her deal with the consequences. He thought that it would strengthened her. He had thought that for almost two centuries, now. At this point, Éponine thought he was only being lazy and selfish. She turned his back on him and walked decidedly towards Marius’ home.

The apartment was a small slum. Marius didn’t have the money yet to offer himself bigger and more luxurious. Éponine knew that he refused the financial help from his family. He had taken a part-time job correcting essays and translating. As a student, he was working hard to sustain himself. As a result, Éponine could easily break in the place without him noticing. She had done so yet to observed her shadowy figure into the mirror and watch him sleep.

At that time of the evening, Marius was not sleeping. He was sitting at his desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper and looking anxiously at the screen of his old computer. He did not even notice Éponine opening the window and sliding inside. She cleared her throat and he startled hard. He bounced from his chair, almost fell backward, and gaped at Éponine.

“Ponine?! What are you doing here? At this hour? I-I... how did you even come in?”

Éponine practically glided towards Marius and put a finger on his lips. She smiled tenderly at him, took in his bemused expression. He was not scared, only surprised and confused. He trusted Éponine this much. She felt her heart like a heavy rock in her chest.

“Marius,” she said, “I have come here to confess something to you. I went to see your Cosette, a few moments ago. The one you won’t shut up about. I found her pretty and joyful. You are a lucky man.”

He smiled at her goofily and she wanted to slap it out of him. Instead, she put her hand on his cheek and marvelled at the instant happiness he felt just thinking about his little brunette. Marius let het touch him and she sighed.

“She’s lucky too, you know,” she continued. “To have a man such as you caring so much about her. I couldn’t harm her even if I wanted to.”

“What do you mean?” Marius asked, a frowned slowly replacing his smile.

“Oh, do not fret, Marius. These are just words. Your Cosette is untouchable to me.”

“But why would you want to harm her?” Marius exclaimed.

“Because she has you, and I don’t.”

An awkward silence followed during which Marius’ face went a nice shade of red. Éponine licked her lips. She adored when Marius blushed. The blood looked delicious under his pale skin. She wondered how it would look against the darker skin of Cosette, against her own olive skin. Marius tried to step backward, but she followed him and cupped his face between her long, crooked fingers.

“Don’t be afraid,” she pleaded, “I’m not here to put a claim on you, to separate you from your love. It would be a crime, wouldn’t it? I understand that now. I know that you cannot love me as much as I love you. And yet, I want you to grant me one thing, and one thing only.”

“What might that be?” Marius said in a breath.

“A kiss. On your neck. The first, and the last, Marius.”

“Would that be cheating on Cosette?” he asked, dread in his voice. Éponine smiled, all teeth.

“Then I will take it from you. It won’t be reciprocated, and so it won’t be cheating.”

With a force that no one attributed to her, she pushed Marius’ head away and kissed him right between his neck and shoulder. She then smelled him and, quickly, she let her teeth grow and sank them into Marius’ artery. He gasped and immediately tried to push her away, but she clung to him and she was stronger. His blood tasted great, his scent was exquisite, and Éponine trembled as she drank and drank. He squeaked and asked her to let him go, but she drained him of his blood. Not once did he try to hit her. Perhaps he was too surprised, perhaps he did not realize what was happening. Anyhow, he just embraced Éponine until he wasn’t able to stand on his own anymore. At that moment, Éponine let go of him. She installed him on the ground and watched as he was fighting for breath. He was as white as a ghost. She straddled him and bit fiercely into her own wrist. When she felt the blood flowing on her chin, mixing with Marius’ blood, she grinned maniacally and pushed her wrist against the man’s mouth.

“Drink,” she ordered like Montparnasse once ordered her. Her voice was high-pitched and terrible. Marius obeyed, staring into her eyes with an odd mixture of dread, fear and ecstasy. When she felt him suck on her blood, she cried out loud and threw her head back. It felt fantastic, not only because of the physical sensation, but also because there was now a part of her that would be in Marius forever.

When Éponine saw that Marius was reddening, getting back his strength, she tore her arm away from him. He whined and she laughed. She leaned on him, but retained her promise of not kissing him again.

“Now, you’ll discover if yours and Cosette’s love is strong enough to last despite all of the changes you are going to undergo. If it is, you might even be grateful to me. If it isn’t, well you’ll be alone like I was for all these years, and I’ll feel a little better about myself. Take it as a gift: I’m sure that your lovely sweetheart won’t mind. She looks capable and gentle enough to remain in love with a monster.”

Éponine caressed Marius’ terrified and bewildered face. Then, she got up, went to the window and threw herself into the night. She landed on her feet, walked in the back alleys for a while, feeling replete and strange. She raised her hand to her cheek and realized that she was crying. She had not cried in years. All in all, Marius had made her feel more human than she ever was. With that thought in mind, she started to sob quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the movie of the same name.


	4. The Siren (Jehan) (Siren)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan is a siren. When he talks, the walls tremble, and so do people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> -Minor character deaths
> 
> -Mention of Jehan/Courfeyrac

_I can find a way to make you love me more than you do_  
 _Caroline_  
 _I don’t want to waste my time unless I’m loving you_  
 _My dear Caroline, Caroline_  
~Caroline -Alex Clare

 

  
Jean Prouvaire has not uttered a word in public since he was sixteen years old, and even before that he wasn’t talking much to begin with. The people he met thought he was mute, and those who knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t the case simply thought that it was a case of severe shyness. They were also wrong. Jehan did not talk because his voice had caused damages and death before. It was like the sounds he made had a life of their own. They travelled in waves and curled around every object they encountered, every person too, affecting them in ways that frightened him.

At the age of six, Jehan had learned to swim. He was spectacularly good at it, despite his young age, and he liked to show off before his younger sister and his parents. They even took him to the beach after only a few lessons, and although he still had to put on swim floats, he felt freer than ever. To express that sentiment of freedom, Jehan opened his mouth and hummed happily. He parroted the songs that his mother taught him as he was floating on his back. After only a few lyrics, he heard someone trudge next to him and he had no time to do anything before he was seized. The stranger was a middle-aged woman with greying brown hair. She was staring at him, teary eyes, as she was holding him tightly. Jehan screamed. She held him even tighter, as the waters seemed to boil around them, and yelled at him to sing again. It took four adults on the beach to tear away the strange woman from little Jehan. She kicked at the water and cried, stretching her arms desperately towards Jehan. As they took her away forcefully, she started to get spasms and went limp. Jehan understood later that she died of a heart attack.

This was not the only instance of Jehan accidentally causing someone’s death. At first, he thought that the woman had only been a creep, but a year later, in the schoolyard, it happened again. Jehan was rocking on the swing, singing a melody to himself, and the kids next to him suddenly stopped their game to stare at him. He asked them to stop, but they kept looking at him, gaping. Frustrated, he got up and walked away, but both kids stood up and started to follow him around. Getting more and more anxious, Jehan ran away, only to get pursued. He screeched at the kids to leave him alone. When they wouldn’t, Jehan went to hide behind the teacher that was supervising the children at recess that day. The teacher yelled at the harassing children. When they kept trying to get to Jehan, their hands balled into tiny fists, she pulled them by force inside of the school. Jehan never saw them again.

Jehan did not cause catastrophe _each_ time he spoke, but it became more and more frequent as he grew up. He realized that his voice had the power to attract people, especially when he was singing, enough for them to experience anguish at the thought of him going away. Nothing good has ever came out of it. Either people became extremely needy for a while, or they literally _needed_ Jehan by their side to stay alive.

During his adolescence, when Jehan discovered that he liked boys better than girls, he almost killed his lover by simply moaning something a little too loudly in his ear. The poor guy had stiffened, had started sobbing and shaking, and had held onto Jehan tightly, his breath scarce, for at least twenty minutes. His skin felt cold and he was sweating heavily. Jehan panicked because he thought his lover was having an asthma attack, or something akin to it. It was much worst than that. When Bruno sat up and seemed to be better, he told Jehan that he had felt as though he would die if they parted for too long. He looked at Jehan with terrified, accusing eyes as he put his clothes back on, and he told him that he never wanted to see him again. Jehan had not had sex ever since. That’s also the moment he ceased to speak or sing.

It was difficult to remain mute. There was so much things to be said, so much things to be expressed. Jehan’s emotions were like a geyser, threatening to burst out every once in a while. He suffered from his lasting silences, could sulk and brood for hours on end, but he held on, moved by the fear of ever hurting someone again. Jehan took on writing and the flute, so he could make sounds in another way than talking. Sometimes, when he was sure he was completely alone, he muttered little comments to himself. He tried to keep his voice as low as possible, but it still made him nervous. Once, since his parents and sister were out, he just sank his face into his pillow and screamed as loud as he could. He remembered clearly the thump of the bird who plowed into his window. He remembered how inconsolable he was that day. He did not even dare to sob, but he couldn’t help the little distressing sounds he made.

Not long after, his mother made him see a therapist, but he stubbornly refused to talk. He did not want people to know that he was special, that he might not be human. Truth was, Jehan liked the prospect of being an otherworldly being. What he didn’t like was the alienation that it caused, since his gift was far from being useful. What he didn’t like was the prospect of being caged, or worse, and studied like he was a mere object. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his family, but he couldn’t take the risk. Not before he had figured out how to control his power. That could take time, seeing as Jehan did not want to practice on living beings.

Out of ideas, his therapist made him learn sign language. Jehan immediately fell in love with it and, obsessed with the need to let out what was caged inside in different ways, he also learned several other languages and even tried morse. One thing remained, though: he was constantly torn between the bitter solitude he needed to mutter and speak low, and the obligation to silence that nobody could understand..

In the end, one of the best things he did as he grew up was to make close friends with a guy called Courfeyrac. Bellamy De Courfeyrac was a rich young man who was affiliated with a group of politically engaged students. He was a little older than Jehan and had always been known at that kid-who-set-his-manual-on-fire-in-twelfth-grade. He was enthusiastic, friendly and incredibly talkative. He sang when he was happy, babbled about his everyday life, squeaked, gasped and laughed when he was surprised. Jehan was absolutely charmed by the amount of noises that could come out of the man. He could keep a complete conversation going by himself, all the while reading people’s body language and knowing when to change the subject. He was a fantastic person, and Jehan had a lot of affection for him.

They only started hanging out when Jehan was nineteen and applied to the same university as Courfeyrac. He had dropped one of his handwritten poems on the floor of the library, and Courfeyrac had ran after him, shouting his name joyously. He asked if he could read it, did when Jehan acquiesced, and his reaction to the poem was to hug Jehan tightly and to tell him he had the soul of a revolutionary. Jehan smiled, held Courfeyrac’s chin between two fingers, and blew air in his face. When Courfeyrac simply laughed and did not question the strange behaviour, he knew they were going to be friends.

From then on, Courfeyrac sort of served as an interpret for Jehan. He slowly, but surely learned sign languages, and talked for Jehan; he recited his poems at the end of the meetings with his group of friends; he sang happy songs or sad little lullabies depending on Jehan’s moods. The two of them were not exactly inseparable, because Courfeyrac hung out more with his two childhood friends Enjolras and Combeferre, but they grew close. Close enough for Jehan to develop some romantic feelings for Courfeyrac. He was not sure that he was _in_ love with Courfeyrac, but he simply felt good in his presence and couldn’t help but to admire the man’s handsome figure. There was a longing there, that was for sure. However, he had no intention of doing anything, because he did not want to see Courfeyrac blemish and cold as a corpse, like Bruno had been. It was better for them to remain friends.

At least, that is what he thought before Courfeyrac came back from a date with his current boyfriend sporting an impressive black eye and a split lip. The whole group erupted in yelps and gawks of indignation when they saw him at the meeting. Everyone except for Jehan, of course. Courfeyrac said that he dumped the guy right after the first punch. The _first_. Jehan wanted to hurl or scream, or both. Courfeyrac got a bit teary-eyed when he added that he was a little afraid of going back home alone because his ex said he had no intention of ‘letting him get away with it’. Combeferre immediately proposed that he should go to his place. Enjolras talked about going to the police. Their friend Bahorel raged and swore he was going to kick the guy’s ass. Jehan had a better idea.

He began by gathering information on Courfeyrac’s ex. He already knew his name and what he looked like, but he needed to know where he hung out. It was a difficult thing to ask Courfeyrac without him getting suspicious, so instead, he asked via signs what was the name of the bar where Courfeyrac had gotten drunk last time. Courfeyrac looked puzzled, but answered nonetheless. There it was, Jehan’s next destination. For the next few nights, he went to that bar, hunting for the man who dared hurt his friend. It took him three days to finally spot him.

Jehan was not exactly a beauty, but he was still a sight for sore eyes because he was immediately noticeable. He had long brown hair and smooth bronze skin that contrasted with his hazel eyes. He also had full lips and feminine traits paired with a tall built and finely defined muscled. The way he dressed was, in his own opinion, spectacular. He had never lacked a good number of suitors, and if he’s been mocked for his fashion sense, he’s always been told he was beautiful. When he approached Courfeyrac’s ex, the man’s gaze passed from bored to lewd in a second. Jehan smirked and beckoned him to the dance floor. The man followed, as expected.

They danced for a while, pressed against one another. The man tried to inquired about Jehan’s name, Jehan’s age. Jehan just shook his head, leaned forward and murmured in a hoarse voice: “My name is not of import. You can call me whatever you want, baby.”

The idiot looked enthralled by Jehan’s voice. In fact, many people around them shuddered despite the loud music. They looked at them curiously, but fortunately did not hear enough to be under the spell. Jehan felt the man peppered wet little kisses on his neck. It wasn’t pleasant in the least, but at least his plan was working. He took the guy by the hand and pulled him away from the dance floor. He followed like a lost puppy. They walked outside the bar, down the street, turned into a back alley... the man pushed Jehan against the bricked wall, stuck his tongue in his mouth, roamed his hands on his body... Jehan moaned and giggled when the man started trembling.

“What are you doing to me?” he asked, confusion passing on his face among the obvious desire. Jehan chuckled.

“I’ll sing you a song,” he declared gayly. He uttered the first words of a song he had heard a week before about a scorned lover. Courfeyrac’s ex slowly brought his hands to his ears. The look he threw Jehan was dark and terrible, torn between pure lust and the will to just destroy the younger man. Suddenly, his large hands were around Jehan’s throat, stopping him in his track. His grip was weak. Jehan flung his hand to the guy’s face and scratched him, drawing blood. The moment the man’s hands loosened on his neck, he threw himself at the man and screeched in his ear. The man let out a cry and staggered. Jehan took that moment to knee him in the balls. He watched as the man fell on the ground.

“Please,” the man breathed out. He was sweating, looked pale too. “Please...”

“You won’t approach Courfeyrac again!” Jehan snapped.

“Please... keep talking... or do something! Help me!”

“You won’t approach Courfeyrac! Repeat after me!”

“I won’t! I won’t!” cried the man.

Jehan sat next to him and let him hold his hand while he wept and held his crotch with the other. He watched the passerby on the street at a few metres from him. Most of them ignored the crying man and Jehan, but some threw them curious looks. Chance was with him, and for once he had to thank human’s prudishness and indifference, because no one came to ask what was wrong.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jehan could leave the confused and tearful guy behind, not without throwing him a last menacing look. He had managed not to kill him. That was a victory. He went to Courfeyrac’s place. He embraced his friend when the door opened, and fat round tears started rolling down his cheeks. Courfeyrac asked what was wrong and Jehan signed that he couldn’t talk.

“Oh, honey, I know that you can’t talk with your mouth, but that doesn’t mean that your voice doesn’t matter! You are still a very expressive person, and you can make yourself be heard anyway!”

Jehan hesitated. Then, he signed that he could actually talk, but that it was dangerous. Courfeyrac frowned.

 _I’m a siren_ , Jehan signed. _My voice weakens people. Make them want me in dangerous ways. If I talked, it would hurt you. Please believe me._

Courfeyrac made Jehan sit down on his sofa. He prepared him a cup of tea, pushed it in his hands and sat next to him.

“Maybe I believe you, maybe I don’t,” he said slowly, “But obviously something happened, and I’d like you to tell me. I’d like for you to tell me with your voice, Jehan.”

Jehan shook his head, tears still streaming down his cheeks. Courfeyrac cupped his face and wiped them with his thumbs. His gaze was soft and kind, not exactly incredulous. He wasn’t going to force Jehan to do anything; all he wanted was to make him feel better. Jehan was moved by the worried smile and the warm hands of his friend. He still did not want to talk, but he felt like he had no choice. He was going to burst if he didn’t. Singing to Courfeyrac’s ex had given him a dizzying rush of relief.

“I hurt your ex-boyfriend,” he let out under his breath. Courfeyrac shivered and a glint of desire passed in his eyes, mixed with confusion and perhaps a little fear. Jehan closed his eyes, but Courfeyrac started massaging his neck carefully.

“What did you do? What did he do to you?”

“I sang. He tried to strangle me. I kneed him in the balls and I held his hand until he stopped looking like a frozen carcass.” Jehan re-opened his eyes. “I told him not to approach you anymore because I thought he was a danger. The truth is, I am the real danger.”

Courfeyrac was gaping at him, his eyes glistening. Jehan had no idea if he had registered any of what he had just said. At least, now, he believed him for sure. After a moment, Courfeyrac bit his lips and approached his face from Jehan’s. He was trembling.

“Your voice is beautiful,” he admitted. “Hoarse, but irresistible.”

“Courf—”

“That doesn’t matter. You are marvellous. You should sing to me. I bet you can sing beautifully. I’ll still be your interpret, you know? The interpret of a siren.”

“Courf! Please!” Jehan exclaimed, panicking.

Courfeyrac’s hands were tightening around Jehan’s neck in a weak hold. He stopped, though. He started to card Jehan’s hair, a little too roughly.

“I’m sorry; I believe you. Please don’t leave. I don’t know what I could do if you left.”

Jehan nodded. Courfeyrac took him in his arms and hugged him tightly. They remained that way for a long time. It felt good, all things considered, but Jehan could feel Courfeyrac shivering and kind of moaning. He clung to Jehan desperately, a bit like Bruno had. Jehan hoped that his friend wouldn’t throw him out when this was all over.

He did not. Instead, he cupped Jehan’s face again and kissed him chastely on the lips.

“My poor friend!” he cried, “You had to refrain from talking unless people literally become addicted to you all these years? I am so, so sorry! This must have felt like a burden, like you constantly had something stuck in your throat!”

Jehan nodded. He smiled shakily and signed _How do you feel? How did it feel?_

“It felt like I was going through withdrawal,” Courfeyrac said, “Like if you left, I’d be dying of it. I felt like... this pull. This attraction to you. If you were in a boat, and I was on the shore, and you were singing? I would be a drowning man. That’s something powerful you have there.”

 _A curse_ , Jehan signed, feeling bitter. _I like my voice, I just wish I could control it._

“I bet it doesn’t have to be a curse,” Courfeyrac disagreed. “I bet that, given the opportunity to practice, you could do beautiful things with that voice.”

_Practising means hurting people!_

“I’d be... Jehan, I’d be willing to let you use me as I— Don’t sign no! Jehan, please look at me. You are my friend. I cannot, in good conscience, let you live like that any longer. You look devastated! And, now that I think about it, sometimes you look as though there is an itch you just can’t scratch. There has to be something I can do. And if you told the others —which I won’t force you to, don’t worry— I’m pretty sure they would try to help you as well.”

Jehan felt moved, but unsure. The thought of letting his voice out again, of singing to someone was thrilling. However, he was so afraid of messing something’s out. Courfeyrac took his hand and went on.

“Jehan, you are not a monster. You just used your voice to protect me. And you did not kill anyone, did you? You are a kind person. You are a good person. You deserve a chance to bloom. Please, let me help you. We’ll figure this out together.”

Jehan scoffed, but he smiled. Truly, it was Courfeyrac who was irresistible.

“Alright,” he said. “Thank you.”


	5. In the Mouth of Madness (Fantine) (Banshee)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantine is a banshee. Death surrounds her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:
> 
> -Implication of minor character deaths

_Blue, green, grey, white, or black;_  
 _Smooth, ruffled, or mountainous;_  
 _That ocean is not silent._  
~H.P. Lovecraft

  
The ocean scared her, but it was still better than confronting the fevered haze of the city. Several times a week, in the early morning or late after work, she had to hurry up to the beach that longed the city. She ran, despair apparent on her expressive face, paying no mind to the few intrigued passerby. They had come to call her Fantine, because they thought she was child-like. The other nicknames they had for her were much meaner, much hurtful, so she took great care of not remembering them.

When, at last, she felt the sand under her shoes, she was always to the point of bursting out. She was weak in the knees, sweat made her dress or her pants cling to her skin, and she could barely see what was in front of her because of the tears blurring her vision. Trembling, she stepped forward towards the shore, taking in the sound of the tide, and after taking a deep breath, she trudged through the waters. Terrified, she did not dare to go too far. She simply fell to her knees, curled on herself and dunk her head in the water. Then she screamed.

The already freezing water felt like ice the instant she shrieked. It seemed to hurry into her mouth to shut her up, and the salt tasted bitter. The ocean seemed to quake with the effort. In that moment, Fantine thought that perhaps she was hurting whatever lived in there. She had no choice, though. Was she to scream, or shrill out of the water, people would know. They would know that she needed to scream to let out the anguishing certainty that something horrible was happening nearby. The trouble was, something generally was happening. Fantine would read the newspapers and would learn about all the horrible crimes that had happened. When there was a date and an hour, they always corresponded to the times when Fantine got the urge to howl and to wail. Sometimes, it was worst because Fantine could hear the sirens of a police car or an ambulance as she was under water, screaming.

It had been like that since she was five. She would get foreboding sense of bad things to come, would hear something from faraway, and would inexplicably have to scream. It was practically impossible to remain silent. Her parents had thought that she had a mental illness, and everyone else thought that she just wanted attention. No one wanted to admit that the sounds coming from Fantine’s throat were otherworldly. Still, when she shouted, they had to cover their ears, grimacing, and they looked profoundly disturbed. Her grandmother even suggested once that perhaps she was possessed. She was promptly shushed down, but the idea still floated in the air, present in the mind of everyone who knew the girl.

Before she was twenty, people knew better than to talk to her. They all thought that she was source of bad omen. She was a kind, meek person who worked hard to be able to sustain herself, but it made no difference: she scared others with her screams. She had even scared her lover away. They had been making love when, suddenly, Fantine felt the need to cry out. She had poor control at that time, and so she did. Félix Tholomyes had an expression of pain on his face, and he shouted at her that she had nearly rendered him deaf. He put his clothes back on and left Fantine’s apartment, insults bubbling to his lips. Fantine cried, begged him not to go and swore that she did not do it on purpose. There was nothing to be done. The next morning, Fantine screamed again and, during the afternoon, she learned at work that Félix had been hit by a big truck and died not long after. She wept bitterly for her lost lover. Nine months later, her daughter Cosette was born.

Fantine could do with her peculiar condition, but she was afraid that her tiny girl would be plagued by the same disease. The baby was generally calm and docile, and when she did cry, nothing bad happened. However, that did not diminished Fantine’s worry. These things could creep up on you. They were quite insidious. Besides, what would happen if Cosette heard her mother keen in such a terrible way? So Fantine decided to let her daughter stay with a family who already had a few children, so she wouldn’t be alone when her mother ran to the sea. Fantine visited Cosette often, but mostly, when she wasn’t at work, she isolated herself.

The ocean wasn’t her first choice. She had thought about smothering her wails in a simple pillow, or in her bathtub. Nevertheless, she felt like a call to the ocean right before screaming. Every time. It also seemed to appease her quicker to dunk herself in salty waters. She felt that she could better unleashed in that vast water-filled space; like she was struggling less painfully to avoid hurting someone inadvertently.

Sometimes, Fantine felt like drowning. The water pressed against her body in a cold, inviting embraced as she screamed, and screamed, and when she was done, she felt a strange mixture of peace and sorrow overcoming her. Each time, she thought that perhaps that last scream had been for her own death. She had always had a fragile health, so why not? Why would she yell, whine and cry for a stranger’s tragedy, but not for her own? Perhaps that was her purpose, after all: crying the death of people when others couldn’t. And really, who would cry Fantine’s death? There was no one, safe Cosette who was too young to understand.

Fantine was wrong. The day she died, it was in utter silence. She did not even saw it coming. As she was screaming into the ocean, she felt dizzy and a sudden ache burst into her head. She straightened up on her knees to breath. As she looked upon the wild sea before her being almost one with the dark blue night sky, she saw herself making a bed out of this ocean. She saw herself falling a sleep and the water engulfing her. She heard the waters curling around her body in cold waves, and she heard the sound of living creatures wailing her loss. She saw sparks of blue, white and black; felt the sand, a soft mattress under her weight. The tide was singing to her not to worry. That worrying was over for her. Fantine fainted and no one was there to see her drown, except for the sea.

Somewhere into in the city, an infant child woke up with a piercing scream that made the other children around her cry in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the movie of the same name, directed by John Carpenter. (The movie itself is based on a Lovecraft story).


	6. Hotel California (Grantaire) (The Merman)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is similar to a merman. Grantaire is painfully enthralled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning
> 
> -Description of physical addiction to a human being.
> 
> -Contains unrequited E/R.

_Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice_  
 _And she said "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device"_  
 _And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast_  
 _They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast_  
~Hotel California -The Eagles

 

Not a day has passed since Grantaire has met Enjolras without him going to the Musain to see the man talk. Frankly, what he said was never of any importance. Of course, people tended to come for the man’s speeches, so he could share his silly little societal projects with them. They were fooled by the optimism and the pretty words. That was not Grantaire’s case. Grantaire went to Enjolras because some kind of irresistible pull made him do it. He had a need of Enjolras, and he did not know why. He thought the man to be an idealist filled with idiotic, unrealistic dreams. Yet, here he was, sitting at the same table than the man, devouring him with his eyes.

It was undeniable that Enjolras was a pretty sight. With his tall stature, his bronze skin, his long dirty blond hair and his wide blue eyes, he looked like a model. He was willowy and feminine, his traits were delicate and yet fierce-looking, and he had enough confidence to make himself glow with it. It was incredible how beautiful Enjolras was, but it was not why Grantaire stayed either. He had seen pretty men and pretty women before. He even had the opportunity to sleep with some of them, when they felt charitable. That did not mean he was ever impressed by the physical appearance of people. For him, an envelop was never enough to dissimulate the hideous things underneath. It was true that he had always been quick to get attached to people, but not enough to unconditionally love. Never enough to fall in love.

No, there was definitely something else in Enjolras that made Grantaire quake with need. He sighed whenever he was away from the man, and his mind went foggy with images of Enjolras standing on a table, roaring at the crowd. It almost physically hurt to be away from the blonde, no matter how ridiculous he thought he was. In the night, Grantaire was haunted with dreams of his muse: Enjolras staring at him, his chin raised high, all of his seriousness transpiring on his sweet woman’s face. The dreams were not sexual in nature, but Grantaire still woke up with a painful erection, or already wet. In the morning, he was practically aching.

This need was not reciprocated. Enjolras could barely smiled at Grantaire. He looked at him with chagrin, rancour or disappointment, but never with envy or desire. He remained gentle, but he was clearly put off with the kind of man Grantaire was, which is: a forceful cynic. The moment they were introduced to each other via a common friend, Grantaire had known that Enjolras would not like him. They were as different as the sun and the moon: Enjolras was as bright as a thousand burning stars, and Grantaire was as cold, dark and hard as a mere natural satellite, born to move around bigger, more interesting people.

He took good care to look like everything Enjolras said did not affect him in the least. It wasn’t true, of course: it made him angrily hopeful at time, and incredulously sad at others. He was not to let anyone know that, especially not the blonde. Not believing in anything was his trade card to avoid bitter frustrations and regret. He preferred to force himself into disillusion rather than be plunged into it after having misguidedly believed a fool. Sadly, he could see eventually falling in the trap that was Enjolras’ voice. If he ever did, he would hit rock bottom.

Grantaire was nothing impressive. He was a clinically depressed drunkard who had trouble dealing with the little ambushes of life. He was not very brave, neither was he particularly confident. He thought he had nothing to offer, nothing that would attract anyone. He was unbelievably ugly, was with his sickly pale skin, his round face covered with acne scars, his flat nose and his droopy brown eyes. He had pudgy fingers that couldn’t hold anything delicately despite his efforts. On top of that, he was bad at everything he was remotely good at and couldn’t gather enough ambition to finish something. In other words, Grantaire was a good-for-nothing bum. A mistake of nature. Unlike Enjolras, he saw nothing in his future.

Now, Enjolras, that was a man with a purpose. A silly one, perhaps, but a purpose nonetheless. He talked with great passion, his voice almost shaking the wall. When he spoke, everyone listened. Even the ones who disagreed spared him a minute. Enjolras could move a crowd, could achieve things. Surely, he couldn’t change the world like he pretended he could with the help of the people, but at least he could instigate some new elements into society. The strength of his convictions was addictive. However, Grantaire figured that there was even more to it than that. There had been other grand men and women with ideas, and Grantaire had not feel as strongly about them as he did Enjolras, even though he respected them.

It was a curse. Loving Enjolras was nothing but trouble. It was nonsensical, futile, and would amount to nothing. Basically, it was an impasse. Grantaire was wasting his time staring at Enjolras, just like he would have wasted it staring at a wall. It made his heart swell with a longing that was infinite and irritatingly undefined. Grantaire was gorged in despair each time his gaze met Enjolras’s by accident. He couldn’t keep going like this. His miserable life couldn’t revolve around another person like that. It was creepy, insane and unhealthy. Anyone would have told him that. In fact, plenty of people had told him. Enjolras’ friends had pleaded him to not come back if he only ever had disdain to offer. His own friends were visibly worried about him. He couldn’t sleep well, he had lost his appetite, he couldn’t concentrate on anything. The only time he ever felt slightly good was when he was in presence of the blonde beauty.

Every attempt at stopping to go to the Musain had failed. He would try to make himself forget about the date and time, would try to take appointments or organize something with friends, but nothing would do. He was always coming back to Enjolras. When it was the tall blonde who did not show up, Grantaire felt almost ill, distressed. He logically understood that Enjolras was a student and did not necessarily have a million things to say per week, but emotionally, he felt wrecked, like he was scared of not seeing him ever again. It was unbearable. Yet, Grantaire loved every second of his misery. Before meeting Enjolras, he had nothing to live for. He was just a mediocre human being who kept giving up on everything he undertook. His existence had always felt empty, void of meaning. With Enjolras in it, there was at last a light, something to look forward to. Even if it made no sense.

One evening, as Enjolras prepared to leave the Musain, Grantaire gathered the courage to go talk to him. He never did before, except to offer a counter-argument or a mocking quip. Enjolras eyed him warily as he saw him approached. Grantaire felt dizzy because of the proximity. He had the urge to simply embrace Enjolras and never let him go. He thought that perhaps simply touching Enjolras would bring him to euphoria. He refrained, because there was no way he deserved such an honour.

“Enjolras,” he said, “I wish to speak with you in private.”

Enjolras averted his eyes, but he nodded. Grantaire’s heart sped up. He hadn’t thought that he would have this talk. He thought that he would be harshly rejected; he had even prepared to apologize for his audacity. The blonde motioned to him to follow him. He walked into the restroom. Grantaire hesitated, and entered the small room. He closed the door behind him. Enjolras wrinkled his nose and sniffed, looking at Grantaire curiously.

“I haven’t taken a bath or a shower in days,” Grantaire could only admit. Enjolras raised his eyebrow, but did not comment. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it, then?” Enjolras asked, but his impatience was feigned. He was taking in Grantaire’s form, and he seemed more curious than anything else. Grantaire smirked.

“You don’t have to act all high and mighty here, where there is only the two of us,” he said. “I know that you can be civile. I saw you laugh with your friends and smile at little children.”

Enjolras snorted. “And as you might have noticed, there’s a difference between you and a friend, or you and a child.”

That hurt a little, but Grantaire let it wash over him. Water under the bridge.

“I don’t know, I’ve been told that I’m a friendly kid at heart!”

“What do you want, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked in a sigh.

Grantaire squirmed. He was suddenly realizing how absurd his intention of inquiring about his own attraction for the blonde was. He scratched his scrubby cheek, opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. This was strange. He was generally good to ramble incessantly about a thing or another. Half-formed ideas would pop up in his mind and he would just blurt them out. It was one of the things Enjolras seemed to dislike about him, so perhaps his prolonged silence was for the best. He smiled cheekily at Enjolras and shrugged.

“I do not know,” he said, “you tell me.”

Surprisingly, Enjolras did not appear confused or annoyed by this. He passed a hand through his mane and sighed. He looked troubled. Grantaire cocked his head to the side and tried to catch Enjolras’ gaze.

“Is something the matter? I did not mean to waste your time. I just—”

“Oh, I know. The temptation brought you here.”

“The temptation?” Grantaire repeated, dejected. Enjolras nodded, smiling slightly.

“What, did you think you was the first to become strangely obsessed with the need to see me? That is nothing special, Grantaire. You fell under the spell.”

“The spell? What?”

Enjolras bit his full lips. “The spell. It sometimes happen. People look at me, hear me talk, and they become sort of entranced with me. They come to the meetings, not because they really care about what I have to say, but because they think... I don’t know, that I’m pretty. Attractive. Except that that attraction is strong enough to make them miss me immensely.” He took a pause and stared at Grantaire. He looked as though he was telling the truth. “You don’t have to believe me, and I’m sorry for what you feel, but I can’t do anything about it.”

“If that was true, then why are you telling me? Why are you risking that I would tell someone else?”

“But you won’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m asking you,” Enjolras declared. He seemed torn between feeling guilty and feeling proud. Somehow, Grantaire knew that he was telling the truth. He had no desire whatsoever to disobey Enjolras. Still, he couldn’t help but scoff at the mighty tone, the sorry gaze, the certitude in Enjolras’ eyes.

“I’m sorry, are you comparing yourself to cocaine or heroine? You think yourself so irresistible that people can’t escape your charms? So much pretension in a few words! ‘Because I’m asking you’. You should hear yourself amount your looks to that of a God!”

Enjolras stiffened. His hands balled into fists as he glared at Grantaire. “I see, so you have chosen not to believe me. Fine. Move over.”

“Enjolras. I refuse to be your prisoner,” Grantaire declared. When Enjolras frowned and started to say something, he cut him off, “If I am to follow you for the rest of my life, worshipping the ground on which you step, I want to believe that it is my choice. If I’m to love every word you utter, I want to believe it’s because you are brilliant, and passionate, and brave. If I’m to dream about you, when I’m awake or when I’m asleep, I want to believe that it’s because you are a sight for sore eyes.”

Enjolras juts out his chin, but he was obviously troubled and did not know what to tell Grantaire. Perhaps the young man was accustomed to being mocked, being told he was crazy for thinking himself a witch or a mermaid, whatever it was. Perhaps he was less used to honest declarations of love.

Grantaire kept going, like his usual rambling self. “I’m telling you: there are no spell that could bewitch me into loving. I had given up on love a long time ago. I haven’t been loving myself since the first part of my adolescence. Now that there is something I enjoy, something I look forward to, you want me to believe that it is magic? Weren’t you the one who talked and shouted about free will, a few minutes ago?”

“Were you listening for once?” Enjolras muttered.

“Oh, but I’m always listening. Not that it is important, Enjolras. I don’t believe a thing you say. That doesn’t mean that you don’t inspire me, that you don’t... how do they say? Elevate my soul.” In a bout of audacity, Grantaire seized Enjolras’ hands. Enjolras startled. He blushed, too, looking at Grantaire’s hands, and then in his eyes. Grantaire pursued: “You are a marvellous creature. Surely, it isn’t surprising that you wouldn’t be human.”

“I was born into water...” Enjolras let out under his breath. He seemed hypnotized by Grantaire’s passionate speech.

“Water! You are like an ocean: immense, intense, prone to anger, but inexplicably reassuring by your sole presence. There’s nothing that will make me believe that I could not fall for you by my own means. It is love, the beast that entrapped me, not the curse of a species that makes men drown.”

There was an awkward silence after that, Enjolras not denying anything. Then he said: “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“I am a doubter, I’m sure you have noticed by now, but that’s one thing I’m sure of.”

“I’ll tell you what, then,” Enjolras said, gently pressing Grantaire’s hands in his own. “I’ll believe you when you start believing one thing I say. Just one, on any subject. When I’ll see the glint of optimism in your eye, that’s when I’ll believe that your.... feelings happened naturally.”

“Oh. But in that case, we’ll be stuck doubting each other for a long time,” Grantaire sighed. His fingers were tingling and he couldn’t stop looking at Enjolras’ eyes. He could lose himself into those eyes.

“I promise that one day, I’ll convince you of something.”

“I don’t believe you,” Grantaire admitted bitterly.

“Because that day has not come yet. Go home, Grantaire. You have work at eight tomorrow.”

“You know my schedule, now?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“I love you!” Grantaire blurted out, but Enjolras pulled away from him.

“I don’t believe you,” he parroted. He side-stepped Grantaire, patted him on the shoulder, and got out of the restroom. Almost immediately, Grantaire felt the churning of withdrawal.

**Author's Note:**

> -I'm Hyela on Tumblr. Come and say hi.


End file.
